Literati
by splenderous
Summary: Brigid McNamara has finally made a name for herself as a writer; now all she wants to do is disappear from the spotlight. When a dark stranger appears and offers her a chance to escape in exchange for an unusual service, is it too good to be true?
1. We're All Mad Here

**CHAPTER 1: WE'RE ALL MAD HERE**

Brigid McNamara was dying. All the signs were there: cold sweat, racing heart, shortness of breath, blurred vision. Why, _why_ had she agreed to this? She tucked back a curl and tried to smile as another cluster of faceless bodies approached her, congratulating her, words drowned out by the ringing in her ears. She murmured something unintelligible and slipped past them, nearly gagging at the heavy reek of cologne that hung over the crowd. Someone called out her name but she kept moving. She passed under a happy, pastel-bright banner – CONGRATULATIONS BRIGID! – and headed straight for the exit. She spotted a stray drink sitting on a table by the door and snatched it up without a second thought, comforted by the cool weight of the glass in her hand as she stepped out into the night.

The air was damp and November-cold, but Brigid paid no mind. She breathed it in, feeling the sear of it in her lungs, and sank down onto the step. She pressed the glass to her lips with a trembling hand and sipped cautiously: whisky. Excellent. She had just begun to drink more deeply when a man's voice floated out of the shadows to her right:

"Good _evening_ , Ms. McNamara!"

Brigid spluttered and choked, soaking much of her front.

"Dammit, who's there!?" she demanded, furiously wiping at her dress.

"Oh, just little old me," said the voice, and a figure slid into the dim light cast by the archway. Brigid narrowed her eyes and assessed the man bouncing on his heels before her: slim, dark-haired, only slightly taller than she. He looked as though he were on the verge of laughing at her.

"Right. Well. Sod off, you," she spat. She stood up and half-turned to go back inside.

"Ah, ah, ah…not so fast, my dear," he said, laying a hand on her forearm. Even in the frigid air, his skin burned against hers. She tried to pull away and his grip tightened. She let out a gasp of anger and raised her other arm, the one with the glass, ready to strike. Suddenly his face was very close to hers and she hesitated; as her arm hung in the air, wavering under the weight of the glass, he laughed and released her.

"There, there now, don't think you want to be doing that – at least not before you hear what I have to say."

"You've just assaulted me in a dark alley, and ruined my only good dress besides. I can't imagine you've anything to say that will dissuade me from opening your skull with this glass."

"Oh, Ms. McNamara, you do disappoint me. Is your capacity for imagination really so limited? And here I've been reading all these wonderful articles about your new book. Was it ghost-written, then? Oh, please don't say it was – that would be so _boring!_ "

"No, it wasn't _ghost-_ written," Brigid hissed.

"Goody – that would have really put a cramp in my style, and I _hate_ having a cramp in my style."

"Hm, I suppose you do," Brigid replied, eyeing him warily. He was wearing a dark blue suit that looked as though it cost more than all her royalties combined. The man took no notice of her scrutiny.

"Anyway, Ms. McNamara – actually, can I call you Brigid? Lovely –"

"Hang on," Brigid interjected, "how do you know my name?"

"Oh, come on, don't be slow with me now," he said with a roll of his eyes. "This is your party, isn't it? Your book release? But you're not enjoying it very much, are you?"

Brigid bristled indignantly at this. "Just who do you think you –"

"All your family and friends are inside celebrating your success and you're out here in a dark alley in the middle of November talking to a strange man. You've got sweat stains under your arms—"

Brigid frowned and crossed her arms over her chest protectively.

"—and your hands are trembling so badly you can't even hold a drink properly," he finished, eyes dropping to the the dark whisky flower blooming across the front of her dress.

"Excuse me, _can't hold a drink properly_? I was doing just fine with my drink until you jumped out of the shadows like a murderous villain."

"Alright, I'll give you that one, apologies, my dear. But come on, I was pretty spot on with the rest of it wasn't I? You don't _really_ want to be here."

"Well, no, not really," she admitted. The man stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at her, waiting for more. Brigid raised her eyebrows in defiance; she was not in a talkative mood.

"Ugh, alright, we'll do it my way, then," he said with another roll of his eyes. "You love writing, simply _adore_ it, so much so, in fact, that you prefer the characters in your stories to real people. The world exhausts you, so you retreat to a world of your own creation. But the problem is, your world isn't real. This world is real. Most days, you can hide from that; but on nights like tonight, there's simply no escaping it. There's no escaping _them_. The tedious, boring people. So you panic. And sweat. And drink. And threaten well-meaning strangers with brute force. Have I got it all?" He grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

Brigid bit her lip, disarmed. "Um, well, yes, I suppose that's quite – quite –"

"Oh, but I forgot the most important part!" He exclaimed, clapping his hands together gleefully. "The part where I come in!"

"Sorry – you?"

"Yes, me, of course me! I'm here to rescue you from all of….this. Your knight in shining armor, if you will, since we're going for a literary bent here." He bowed grandly.

"If this is your way of trying to get me to go home with you for a lay, you should know I've still got this glass and I'm not above using it on you," Brigid said, raising the glass menacingly above her head once more.

"Oh, please, sex with strangers is _so_ last year," the man said. "I've got something _much_ more interesting in mind."

"Oh?"

"I have a house for you."

"A _what_?"

"A house. You know, four walls, two doors, windows, a chimney. You'll _love_ it, it's perfectly secluded, deep in the Irish countryside with no one else for miles around. Just a load of sheep, although we can take care of those for you if you don't like the smell."

Brigid was thoroughly confused.

He continued, "And it's all yours for the absolute bargain price of zero. Provided, of course, you do a little job for me."

She raised her eyebrows. "What's that?"

"I want you to write for me. We can get into the details later, but I have something very specific in mind and you're exactly the person I need. What do you say?"

"I – I think you're a bit mad," Brigid said, edging back towards the door. The man made no move to stop her.

"Oh, no doubt I am, Brigid. But let me tell you something – we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?"

"You must be," said the man, "or you wouldn't be here."

Brigid shook her head. "I shouldn't be here. I – I've got to go. My family –"

"Oh, yes, the family, _yawn_ ," he replied. "Well, when you get bored of them, my dear, come and find me, will you? My offer still stands."

Something occurred to Brigid. " _Find_ you? I don't – I don't even know your _name_."

"Oh! Silly me. Got a little carried away. I do that sometimes. Call me…James." He stuck out his hand. Brigid grasped it; he burned. She let go quickly and turned to the door. As she pushed it open, she was hit with a blast of moist heat and flowery scent. She looked back over her shoulder one last time; he was still standing there in the cold, eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"Goodbye, James," she whispered as the door swung closed.


	2. Down the Rabbit Hole

**CHAPTER 2: DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE**

Brigid awoke the next morning feeling very much as though she had fallen down a rabbit hole. Possibly this was due to the large quantities of whisky she had consumed in an effort to drown out the memory of the man in the alley. Well, she had almost succeeded. He was no more than a bit of bright fuzz in her mind, glittering and strange and totally indistinct. She couldn't even remember his name. What was it again –

"James."

Brigid shot upright in bed and immediately regretted it. Her temples throbbed and her stomach gave a sickening turn. "Oh, god," she moaned, passing her hand over her eyes as they danced with stars.

"Sorry, love, didn't mean to startle you, but –"

"How the _hell_ did you get into my room?" Brigid demanded. She tried to pull off an angry tone, but it came out as more of a whimper in her current state. She lowered her hand from her eyes and squinted through the dim. James was perched cheerfully atop her writing desk, swinging his legs back and forth so that his loafers banged against her dresser. Her head throbbed anew with each kick.

"It's not interesting," he replied with a wave of his hand. "And anyway, we don't have time. We're already running late, you've overslept –"

"Over _slept_? Sorry, have I missed something? As far as I'm aware, I'm perfectly within my rights to enjoy some peace and relaxation in my own flat while I try to sleep off this whisky-induced nightmare. Goodbye."

She made to burrow back under her covers. James leapt off the desk and grasped her bedcovers with both hands, yanking them to the floor in one fluid motion. Brigid gave a yelp of surprise and curled her legs up to her torso, suddenly very aware that she had gone to bed without bothering to put on pants.

"Now, now, Brigid, let's not play _games_ ," he said, smiling down at her. "We've got the helicopter all ready up top, so just pack up whatever you need to write, some cardigans – it'll get cold, there's no central heat – some… _pants_ , maybe—"

"There's no central heat…where?" she asked.

"Well, at your new house, of course. Have you forgotten already? You really do live in a world of your own, don't you?"

Brigid squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to wake up from this impossible dream.

"Allow me to refresh your memory," he continued. "Last night, at approximately 10:37 p.m., you agreed to indulge me on a little writing project in exchange for free board in a private country house. Away from all of this." He swept his arm across the room, taking in the sorry state of Brigid's small flat. Brigid sat up again, gingerly, fighting a wave of nausea.

"Allow me to refresh _your_ memory," she countered. "Last night we came to no such agreement. In fact, I distinctly remember you telling me to seek you out if I ever changed my mind. I don't recall it being the other way around."

"Hm, well, yes, you may be right, but…I changed my mind. Oops! I do that sometimes. I decided you needed a little bit of a push. So here I am. Push!" He leaned forward, placed both hands on Brigid's back, and shoved her unceremoniously off the bed. Her stomach heaved at the sudden change in altitude and she scrambled on her hands and knees out into the hallway. She barely made it to the bathroom before the vomiting began. James materialized in the doorway, looking down at her with a twisted half-smile.

"Tsk, tsk, you writers are all the same. I had thought about leaving some of my good whisky with you at the house, but on second thought I'm a _little_ bit worried about what that might do to your productivity. I think I'll hold off, for now."

The heaving abated momentarily, and Brigid turned to him with a haggard glare. She opened her mouth to speak, but this only caused her stomach to turn again.

"There, there, love, that's it, get it all out now," he said soothingly. "Best to take the helicopter on an empty stomach, I think."

* * *

As it turned out, James was right. Brigid was no longer in danger of vomiting, but she felt dazed and lightheaded as she pressed her nose against the glass. They passed over rivers and towns and endless rolling green fields, everything so small it could have been part of some other, far-away world. She herself didn't feel real. She was floating.

The past few hours had been a blur. In the end, defeated by James's relentless cheer and more than a little intrigued, she had pulled on some jeans and packed a knapsack with some extra clothes. When she had made to grab her laptop off her desk, James put a hand out.

"Ah, yes, sorry, forgot about that love," he said. "There's another condition for the job – no access to the outside world. No computers. No phones. No beepers. No flare guns."

"No _phones_? But what am I supposed to tell my family –"

"Family, schmamily. What are you agreeing to this for, anyway? Don't you want to just get away from them all?"

"Well, I suppose, but how am I going to write without my laptop?"

"Oh, I'll take care of that for you. Not to worry, my love." He grinned and winked.

Resigned to her fate, Brigid followed James out of her flat and up to the roof of the building, where there was, indeed, a helicopter, as well as an extremely large bald man who looked as though he could break her in two.

"Sebastian," James said airily, waving his hand at the man. Sebastian grunted and nodded curtly at Brigid before helping her into the cab. He climbed in after her and James squeezed in last. Brigid and Sebastian spent the next few hours in silence while James chattered away incessantly into his Bluetooth. On another day, Brigid would have tried to listen in on his conversations; today, it was just white noise. As they left London behind, she expected to feel a bit sad, but in fact she felt nothing. Maybe James was right; maybe this wasn't her world, after all.


	3. Curiouser & Curiouser

**CHAPTER 3: CURIOUSER & CURIOUSER**

"Get out, Lestrade, can't you see we're busy?"

Greg Lestrade wasn't sure how to respond to this. He stood in the doorway of 221B Baker Street, watching openmouthed as a grown man in a full suit chased a pigeon around the apartment with a harpoon gun.

"We?" Asked Lestrade. "Where's Watson?"

Ignoring this, Sherlock leapt onto the kitchen table, took aim, and fired as the pigeon passed in front of his view. The shot went wide and the harpoon spear embedded itself in the front wall with a small explosion of dust and wallpaper.

" _Damn_!"

"Right here," said John, coming up the stairs behind Lestrade. He merely stood still for a moment, taking in the scene; then he walked calmly over to the window, where the pigeon was fluttering madly, and let it open. The hapless pigeon darted out immediately and John gave Sherlock an exasperated look.

"Well, _that_ was boring," Sherlock whined, tossing the harpoon gun to the floor and jumping from the table.

"Yes, and effective," John replied. He turned back to the police chief. "Sorry about that, Greg. What's going on?"

Lestrade started to speak, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"We're not taking the case."

"What – you haven't even heard –" Lestrade spluttered.

"Don't need to, it's all over your face. And the news, for that matter. Brigid McNamara?"

"Hang on," Watson interrupted. "Brigid McNamara? The writer? What's happened to her?"

"Disappeared from her flat without a word three days ago, no one's heard from her since. Left all her belongings behind – cell phone, laptop, money, IDs. Her parents –"

"Are in denial," Sherlock interjected. "She's clearly run off on her own. Small-time writer who suddenly makes it big and finds herself thrust into the spotlight? I've read her old work. Murder mysteries. Very sordid stuff. She's clearly an introvert, possibly borderline sociopath. She couldn't handle the attention so she ran away. Obviously."

"You can't possibly know all this just from having read her old stories," said Lestrade indignantly. "Please, at least come round with me to her flat and have a look, we're under a lot of pressure here – her parents, you know – very high profile case, all over the news –"

John laid a hand on Lestrade's arm and gently led him towards the door.

"Just give us a moment, will you, Greg? There's a good man, go down and see Mrs. Hudson, she's got tea on."

Lestrade began to protest but John swiftly shut the door in his face. He turned back to Sherlock, whose gangling limbs were stretched out at odd angles over the sofa.

"Sherlock, I think we should –"

"Lure another bird in here? Yes, John, I completely agree. I really need to brush up on my harpoon aim and they make a perfect target. Although I think the pigeon was too slow, perhaps we should go for a swallow next time –"

"Absolutely not."

"Starling?"

"No. No birds. The Brigid McNamara case –"

"Oh, god, are we still talking about her? I've already solved it."

"Yes, yes, you're very clever. Don't you think we should at least have a look around her flat? You must admit, it's a bit odd that she'd leave all of her belongings behind if she were running away."

"I can think of at least seven possible explanations."

"Well, all the same –"

Sherlock shot John a look.

"You're curious, aren't you, John?"

"Curiouser and curiouser."

"Fine," Sherlock sighed. "We'll have a look. But only because I've nothing else to do this afternoon now that you've put an end to my target practice."

* * *

John stepped gingerly over a mass of muddied shoes blocking the doorway, making his way into the tiny kitchen, where Sherlock had already opened all the cupboards. Empty except for a tin of loose tea and a packet of ramen.

"Starving artist," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes.

"But why? This new book of hers – it's getting quite a lot of press. She must have some money lying around."

"Hardly. Likely the royalty checks haven't come through yet."

"Suppose they have, and she's sent them off to someone? A family member, perhaps?"

"Don't be silly, John. She's an only child, and her parents are well enough off on their own," Sherlock said, jabbing at last year's Christmas card that was still stuck to the fridge; it showed Brigid's parents grinning happily in front of a large fireplace.

"What about a lover?"

"Single," Sherlock replied, opening the utensil drawer to reveal a single knife, fork, and spoon. "Doesn't have friends over, either."

He bent down to the cabinet under the sink, which was crammed full of empty or near-empty whisky bottles. John let out an impressed whistle.

"Drinker. And smoker," he added, sniffing the air.

The bathroom was next. Sherlock recoiled as he lifted up the toilet seat.

"Drinker confirmed. She's been vomiting in here. Recently."

John backed out quickly and moved on to the bedroom. He pointed to the mass of bedcovers heaped on the floor.

"Could be a sign of a struggle –"

"No," said Sherlock, stepping around him. "More likely she threw them to the floor herself in a panicked effort to get to the bathroom before she vomited."

"Lovely."

"Indeed."

"Well, what about the laptop and the phone? Should we –"

"No," said Sherlock. "The phone will only show missed calls from her parents. The laptop will just be full of discarded stories that weren't good enough to make it to the publisher. A frightening thought, really, given how dreadful the ones that _did_ make it to the publisher turned out –"

"What?" Said John, offended. "I always thought they were quite good, and this new one –"

"Is derivative and melodramatic," Sherlock replied. "Which, given, her circumstances, is unsurprising," he added, gazing around the messy room with distaste.

"Hmph. Well, there is the issue of money—"

"Got it!" Sherlock clapped his hands together. "The royalty checks _did_ come through. As soon as she had them in hand, she cashed them and ran; she left her credit cards so she couldn't be tracked. I suppose it would be easier to just tell her family she's gone and died, don't you –"

" _No_ , Sherlock. They're her parents, for God's sake, they deserve the truth."

"Right, well, we'll leave that one to Lestrade, I think. It's bound to get messy and I hate when things get messy."

John sighed and nodded in defeat.

* * *

On their way back to Baker Street, Sherlock turned to John.

"Well, what is it?"

"What's what?"

"The title. For the blog post."

"How did you know I was going to—"

"Please, John. Even though the case was monstrously boring, she is famous. I know you can't resist."

"Fine. I hate it when you do this. I was thinking: The Ghosting Writer."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.


	4. Of Ravens & Writing Desks

**CHAPTER 4: OF RAVENS & WRITING DESKS**

The helicopter touched down gracefully in a large field, sending a herd of frightened sheep scattering and bleating in all directions. James jumped out first, circled around to the other side, and offered Brigid a hand. He was still yammering into his Bluetooth and seemed to take no notice of the fact that Brigid was unsteady on her feet. She nearly collapsed onto the grass, lightheaded from a combination of being in the air so long and not having eaten since dinner the night before. She grasped the door of the helicopter and looked about, squinting through the mist. There was nothing around them but the sheep and a few scattered trees. A low hedge ran to their right, in the direction of a small structure about a mile off.

"Where are we?" She asked.

"Home," James answered shortly, before returning to his conversation. He began to walk along the hedge, and Brigid felt a sharp prod in her back.

" _Ouch_!" she exclaimed, rubbing at the spot angrily and turning to confront the offender. The words died in her throat when she realized it was Sebastian, and the source of the prod was a gun.

"Right. Walking," she said, quickly turning back around and hurrying after James. He had finally pocketed the Bluetooth and was trudging along at a brisk pace. Brigid was panting by the time she caught up with him; mobility wasn't exactly her strong suit.

"Listen," she panted, "are the gun and the – um—henchman—strictly necessary? This doesn't seem very –"

James waved his hand dismissively. "It's all for your protection, you've got nothing to worry about, Sebastian is under strict orders not to harm you. Unless you break the rules, of course."

"The rules?"

"Yes, the rules, haven't we been over this? You work for me now. You write when and what I ask you to. No contact with the outside world. All of that."

"Right, yes, I remember, but what do I need protection for? I'm hardly –"

"Ah, silly me, I've forgotten the most important rule, sorry love. No questions!"

" _No questions_?"

"Well, some questions, I suppose, but not about anything important."

"And how am I supposed to know what's important?"

James stopped for a moment and turned to face Brigid directly. She froze. His eyes were very dark, and very shiny. He reached up a hand and caressed her cheek gently, almost lovingly.

"Oh, you'll figure it out, love. In time."

With that, he abruptly turned away and continued on towards the house. Brigid and Sebastian followed in silence the rest of the way.

* * *

The house loomed ominously out of the fog; it was all dull gray stone and dark windows. As if this weren't enough, a cluster of chattering ravens huddled along the eaves, giving the house the distinct impression of being haunted. Brigid was in love.

"It's wonderful," she breathed as she stepped over the threshold. James grinned and threw his arms out theatrically, walking backwards through the foyer.

"I thought you'd like it. Convenient location for dreaming up murder mysteries, don't you think?"

"Yes, I think even Poe would have been happy here," Brigid nodded, taking in the dusty walls and creaking floorboards. "So is that what I'm going to be writing, then? Murder mysteries?"

"Obviously, that's your specialty, isn't it? If I'd wanted romance I certainly wouldn't have hired _you_ ," he said, looking her up and down.

Brigid wasn't sure whether to be offended or flattered by this.

"Oh, don't be offended, that was a compliment. Romance is for boring people. We're not boring, love, you and I," he said with a wink.

"Right, um, thanks, I guess…" she trailed off and wandered into the kitchen. It was surprisingly clean, full of large, gleaming wooden cabinets with brass handles. She opened one and found it was fully stocked with more varieties of food than she had eaten over the course of her lifetime.

"You didn't need to do all this," she said as James strode into the kitchen, "I don't eat much, I'm really more of a tea-and-ramen kind of girl –"

"Yes, and whisky, I know, but as you can't have that I figured you might want to expand your boundaries a little bit."

She shot him a look.

"Oh, don't give me that," he rolled his eyes. "It's just a little experiment. If you're good, we'll give the whisky a chance."

"What about cigarettes?"

"Come on, really?"

"Be decent. I've got to have something. I'll go mad if I don't. I'll throw myself off the roof and damn your stories."

"Bit morbid, aren't you?"

"It's my job to be morbid."

"Point taken. Bottom drawer to your right."

She opened the drawer and found enough cigarettes to last her two months.

"Brilliant," she said, snatching up a pack and pocketing it for later.

"If you're quite finished, I've got more to show you," he said, pivoting on his heel and heading towards the stairs. Brigid followed him up two flights until they stood under what appeared to be an attic entrance: a large wooden door cut into the ceiling of the landing, frayed rope hanging down limply. James grasped the rope and yanked; the door gave a massive groan and swung downwards to reveal a set of steps that looked as though they hadn't been tread in decades.

"After you, love."

Brigid glanced nervously at the precarious steps and then back at James. He smiled.

"It's perfectly safe. We had Sebastian test them earlier just in case – he's about three times your size, and he was fine. Except for the second and fourth steps. Watch out for those."

Not comforted by this reassurance, Brigid grasped both sides of the staircase and hesitated. Suddenly, she felt a pair of hands grip her waist from both sides. She breathed in sharply as James leaned close.

"Up you go, love," he whispered, lifting her into the air. She ignored the swooping feeling in the pit of her stomach and swung her legs up to the first step. He released her and she scrambled up the rest of the way, making sure to skip the second and fourth steps. She emerged in a long room with a high, slanted ceiling. To her left was a massive canopy bed hung with deep blue curtains. To her right was a triangular window that stretched uninhibited from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Directly in front of the window, facing outwards, was an ancient wooden writing desk; it was bare save for an old-fashioned typewriter and a stack of cream-colored paper. She pushed these aside and climbed up onto the desk, gazing out over the dreary meadow. Sebastian was loitering by the doorway below, spinning his gun around one finger and looking thoroughly bored. Farther off, nearly obscured by the mist, the helicopter crouched, waiting for its master to return. The sheep were nowhere to be seen. Brigid pulled a cigarette from her pocket and fished around in her jacket for a light.

"Damn," she muttered, coming up short.

"Here you go, love."

Brigid whirled around on the desk; she had been so distracted, she hadn't noticed James come up behind her. He was standing very close, and he was holding up a light. Grinning, she stuck the cigarette in her mouth and leaned towards him, inhaling deeply.

"What do you think?" He asked solemnly.

Brigid released a curl of smoke into the air and looked at him dead on.

"I think I'm going to like it here."


	5. A Mad Tea Party

**CHAPTER 5: A MAD TEA PARTY**

James had gone back downstairs to give Brigid some space to unpack. Truth be told, she didn't have much; she'd been in such a daze that morning, she hadn't grabbed more than a few items of clothing. She tossed these into the dresser in about thirty seconds. She bit her lip, wishing she'd thought to bring more underwear; this wasn't going to last her long, and she wasn't exactly keen on laundry. On the other hand, it wasn't like there would be anyone to notice…

She shrugged and turned away. She wasn't totally vile – at least she'd thought to bring a toothbrush. She laid it across the sink that stood in the corner of the room and leaned in to examine herself more closely in the mirror. It was a sorry sight. Her face was pale and drawn, and her dark hair hung down across her cheeks in ragged curls. Right. A shower, then –

"No time for that just now, my dear!" James's voice floated up from below. "I've got to be off shortly, you can get cleaned up once I'm gone – God knows you need it – but we've got some business to sort through first."

"How does he bloody…." Brigid muttered to herself as she crossed over to the hole in the floor and carefully lowered herself down the steps. She found him in the kitchen with a kettle on the stove and two steaming mugs set out on the table. She sat down across from him and narrowed her eyes.

"It's a bit rich that you're commenting on my appearance, isn't it, given that you're the one who ripped me out of bed without warning and subjected me to a cross-country helicopter ride?"

"Please, Brigid, don't be trite," he sighed. "You were nearly just as unkempt last night—"

"Your fault –"

"Wrong. Whisky's fault—"

"Speaking of whisky, could –"

"No. We haven't any. Drink your tea."

She sighed and sipped reluctantly.

"Now," James continued, "down to business. I've read all of your work – yes, all of it, even the old stuff – and I have to say, I'm a fan. I want you to write more for me. More of the same – you know, murder mysteries and all that – but with a twist."

"What kind of a twist?"

"A literary twist."

"Sorry?"

"I want you to take the classics – ones people can recognize – and rework them into modern mysteries. Short stories."

"Hm."

"Hm?"

"I'm not sure I follow."

"You're being slow, love, you know I hate that –"

"Can you just give me an example?"

"Honey, you're supposed to be the writer here, but—fine, I can see you're going to make this difficult. Take 'Alice in Wonderland.' Girl falls down a rabbit hole and into a secret world full of wonderful and dangerous characters. Rewrite it so that Alice is a young woman who, I don't know, is an alcoholic chasing false dreams and falls in with the wrong crowd. She disappears from the face of the earth and is never heard from again. Something like that."

"What are you implying?"

"Nothing, I'm just giving you an example."

"But the real Alice didn't disappear forever – she came back."

"Exactly. That's why you'd need to fix it. As we've already established, you're the writer here. You've got complete control over all the stories, provided that they mirror the classics. Oh, and someone's got to die in each one."

"Do they?"

"Yes, they do. Any questions?"

"Yes, a number of them."

"Well, I've only got time for one," he said, standing up and glancing at his watch. Brigid stood up as well.

"What exactly are we doing all this for?"

James quirked an eyebrow.

"That, my love, is what I consider an 'important question.'"

Brigid frowned, and he strode past her into the foyer. He waved a hand towards the adjoining room.

"Library in there. Lots of books. Consider it your…inspiration." He backed up towards the doorway. "I've got some business to attend to back east, but I'll be back in about a week. You'll be alone, but don't get any ideas; Sebastian will be checking in periodically to make sure you're following the rules."

Sebastian grunted wordlessly from the front stoop. James touched his fingertips to his forehead in a kind of salute.

"Until the next story, my dear."

"Until the next story," Brigid breathed, watching the two men retreat into the fog.

* * *

Brigid found the shower on the second floor. The water was taking ages to heat up, but she was too impatient to wait. She hopped in with a little scream of shock as the icy water punched into her skin. She scrubbed through her hair in about three seconds flat – there was fresh soap on the ledge – gave the rest of it up as a bad job, and was soon out and shivering and smothering herself in towels. She'd give it another try later that evening when the water would have a chance to warm. Speaking of warm, she'd have to poke around for a fireplace somewhere – James had mentioned there was no heat. And it was November. Lovely.

She found one in the library and was pleased to note that there was already a stack of kindling and firewood ready to be used. If it had been up to her to scavenge her own fuel, she'd be dead of hypothermia before James came back. Once she'd gotten the fire started, Brigid stepped back to inspect the room more thoroughly. It was packed wall-to-wall with books; hardcovers, paperbacks, even stacks of unbound paper that looked as though they might be manuscripts. There was no discernible order to the shelves: satires sat alongside atlases stood on top of poetry compilations. The alphabet was entirely ignored.

Not quite sure where to begin, she did a few circuits around the room, letting her eyes wander. Finally, on the third round, they came to rest on a slim volume: hardcover, red. She grinned and pulled it off the shelf. Abandoning the fire to its own devices, she made her way back up to the attic. She settled herself before the writing desk, swept back her damp hair into a low ponytail, and fed a fresh page into the typewriter. Brigid clamped a new cigarette between her teeth and lit it with the lighter James had left behind. The tip glowed soft and orange as she began to type:

 _It was a pleasure to burn._


	6. Fahrenheit 451

**CHAPTER 6: FAHRENHEIT 451**

The first explosion happened on a Sunday. It was small – didn't even destroy the whole apartment. It was just enough. Sherlock and John stood side by side on the threshold, gazing into the wreckage.

"Center of the blast – there," Sherlock said, pointing to a particularly blackened spot in the floor surrounding the remains of what had once been a sofa. "Just the one victim, yes?" He continued, turning back to Lestrade, who hovered slightly behind them.

"Yes, yes, just the one—"

"Name?"

"Martin. William Martin."

"Bank teller?"

"Yes, how did you—"

"Oh, it's fairly obvious, isn't it, John?"

"Hm?" John said, startled. "Oh, yes, yes, of course, bank teller—"

"And an avid reader, clearly," Sherlock added, taking in the litter of ruined books strewn about the room. "Any idea what he was reading when he was blown up?"

"I—how could we possibly know a thing like that? How do you even know he was reading?" Demanded Lestrade.

"Bookworm. Lives alone. Sunday afternoon. An hour ago, the sunlight would have been streaming through the window, exactly to this spot," Sherlock said, pointing once more to the blast center. "He was curled up there like a cat with his favorite book – if you have a look in the kitchen I expect you'll find a full mug of tea still waiting to be drunk."

"He's right," echoed a reluctant voice from the kitchen. Sherlock smirked.

"Thank you, Donovan."

"Alright," said Lestrade. "Suppose you're right –"

"I am."

"He is."

"Thank you, John."

"Yes, anyway, supposing you're right – what's that got to do with anything?"

"Why, everything, of course. The book was a bomb."

"Oh, Jesus."

"I'm serious."

"Well, if that's the case, what are we supposed to do now?"

"I'm not sure there's anything we can do now," John interjected. "All the evidence has been destroyed."

"Quite right, John, well done," Sherlock said. John, shocked at the compliment, nearly choked on his coffee.

"The only thing left to do now," Sherlock continued, "is wait."

"Wait for _what_ , exactly?" Sally Donovan demanded, stepping through from the kitchen to join them.

"For Moriarty's next move. The game is on!"

* * *

"Alright, I've got to know – how do you know Moriarty was behind this?" John asked, once they were back in the privacy of 221B.

"Behind what?" Sherlock replied, not looking up from his phone.

"The _explosion_. The book bomb," John hissed.

"I've no idea what you're talking about."

"WILLIAM. BLOODY. MARTIN."

"Sorry?"

John let out a frustrated roar and threw his newspaper to the ground.

"John, dear, what's matter?" Mrs. Hudson asked, shuffling into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

"Just the usual arseholery, Mrs. Hudson," John seethed through clenched teeth.

" _Language_ , John!"

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson."

"That's quite alright dear. Is this about the text message?"

John's head snapped up as Sherlock's lips pursed.

"What text message?" John said quietly.

"Oh, you know, the one from that Jim character," she said cheerfully as she set out the mugs. "Moriarty."

" _Dammit_ , Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock burst out. "I was going to use it as leverage to get John to give my harpoon gun back."

"You're not getting it back."

"I was only having a bit of fun. Lighten up, John."

"Oh, fun, is it, keeping your best friend in the dark? Someone's dead, Sherlock! Jesus Christ," John exclaimed.

"Language…" Mrs. Hudson warned.

"Sorry. Sherlock. Explain."

"Well, there's not much to explain, really. Just this." Sherlock held out his phone for John to see. On the screen, a single text message from a blocked number:

 _School's back in session._

 _Better put your nose to the books._

 _Jim Moriarty x._

"Oh— _Jesus,_ Sherlock, and here you had everyone believing that you'd deduced the book bomb all by yourself. And you got this text before we even heard from Lestrade. You're an idiot, you know that?"

"Hardly. In any case, the result is the same. We can't do anything more until the next one."

"The _next one_? You mean we're supposed to just sit here and wait for more people to get blown up so you can go on playing some stupid game with your—your _arch enemy_!?"

"Regrettable, but yes. Obviously, I would rather people not get blown up, but there's no way for us to know who's going to be next. In time, the pattern will reveal itself, but we must be patient. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock added, accepting a warm mug from the landlady.

"Don't expect this from me regularly, you know," she replied. "I've only made it to calm John down. I could hear him getting worked up from all the way downstairs."

"Hear that, John? Even Mrs. Hudson thinks you'd better calm down." The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched as John's eyes narrowed.

* * *

In the end, there were five more. Besides William Martin, there was Kat Owens; Robert Nelson; Scott Tatum; Annie Anderson; and Emily Gregory. They were spread out over seemingly random parts of London; they were entirely unremarkable, often bookish types, living alone, making a decent wage and being generally unobtrusive. Except, of course, for the fact that each was blown to smithereens by an explosive-rigged book.

It was Friday – just five days since Martin – and they were standing outside the remains of Emily Gregory's little brownstone. John pulled Sherlock off to the side, away from Lestrade and Donovan.

"Listen, Sherlock, they're getting fed up," he said in a low voice. "This is the sixth one and we've still got nothing to show for it, how many more –"

"No more," Sherlock said shortly. "This is it. This is the last piece of the puzzle."

"Oh," said John, surprised. "Oh, great, well, then—what is it?"

"I don't know yet."

"Of course you don't."

"Just _give_ me a moment."

"Fine," John acquiesced, stepping away as Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. Lestrade and Donovan had started to walk towards them, but John drew a finger across his throat, warning them to give Sherlock space. Donovan looked exasperated.

Three minutes later, Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He began typing furiously into his phone, then stopped abruptly and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Right. Got it. Let's go."

"Go where?" Asked Lestrade, looking back and forth between Sherlock and John.

"451 Fairfield Road," Sherlock said, sticking a long arm into the air and stepping into the first cab that pulled up. He motioned for John to slide in. "Follow us! And bring the bomb squad!"

* * *

"So, are you going to tell me what we're going to find at 451 Fairfield Road?" John asked once the cab had pulled away. "Or are you waiting until we arrive so you can really savor the look of dawning realization as it washes over my face?"

"Well, if you're going to be bitter about it—"

"Of course I'm going to be bitter about it, just bloody tell me what's going on—"

"It's simple, really, one only needs a Level 4 knowledge of literature to understand—"

"Goddammit, Holmes –"

"And frankly I had this suspicion earlier but couldn't be sure until the pattern was complete."

"And what's the pattern?"

"Martin. Owens. Nelson. Tatum. Anderson. Gregory."

"M-O-N…oh. Montag."

"Indeed."

"I suppose there are a limited number of London addresses that start '451 F-'?"

"Quite. And out of those, according to the Internet, only one of them is a library. Fairfield Archival Library, to be exact. At 451 Fairfield Road."

"Brilliant. So Moriarty's given up on big crime and decided to take out his pent-up man-child anger on libraries now?"

"Well, the stakes are slightly higher than that. There's a special exhibition at the Fairfield Archival Library this month."

"Do I even want to know?"

"It's the Book of Kells."

" _The Book of Kells_!? I thought that didn't move from Dublin. Ever. How in the bloody hell did it end up in the _Fairfield Archival Library_!?"

"The librarian I spoke to while you were busy talking to Lestrade informed me that it was the work of an extremely influential donor."

"Not—"

"Oh, yes. An extremely influential, extremely anonymous, _Irish_ donor."

* * *

Scotland Yard made short work of the bomb, defusing it successfully without causing any lasting damage to the Book of Kells. This was much to the gratification of the head librarian of the Fairfield Archival Library, who had fainted dead away at the sight of an armored bomb squad sprinting towards one of the most valuable texts in Europe.

Sherlock hung back among the shelves, away from the crowd. His phone buzzed and the screen lit up:

 _A book is a loaded gun in the house next door._

 _Who knows who might be the target of a well-read man?_

 _Better study up, Mr. Holmes – next one won't be so easy._

 _Jim Moriarty x._

"Lovely," said John in a low voice, peering around Sherlock's elbow.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Come on, John, you heard the man – best get home and study up before the next one, eh?"

"You'd better hope the game doesn't go too far on the _next one_ , Holmes," John warned. "You're Moriarty's favorite toy. And he doesn't like to play fair."

Sherlock had no reply to this.


	7. Chesire Cat Grin

**CHAPTER 7: CHESIRE CAT GRIN**

Brigid was falling: to where, she didn't know. The air around her was completely void; of light, of sound, of substance. Her stomach gave a sickening lurch and her eyes snapped open to a softer, solider darkness. Panting, she ran her hands over her face, siphoning off cold sweat and rubbing it into the sheets on either side of her. She was just coming back down to a normal heart rate, comforted by the soft gray light of the morning, when her bed curtains were suddenly wrenched back. Brigid gave a strangled yelp of surprise and tumbled to the floor.

"Morning, sunshine!" James sang, looking impossibly functional at such an early hour in his pressed suit. His teeth gleamed sharp and white in the gloom, giving Brigid the odd impression that he was just a floating smile.

"Get your Chesire Cat grin out of my face," she moaned up at him. "It's too early for this. It's too early for you."

"Nonsense, love, I'm always on time," he said, glancing at his watch just to be sure. "Speaking of time – it's time for breakfast. Up you get." He offered her a hand. Brigid accepted grudgingly and allowed herself to be pulled upright.

"Strictly speaking, I don't do breakfast –" she began.

"Yes, I've noticed, much of the kitchen looks quite unused," James replied. "Save for the canned soup supplies and the cigarette drawer. You ought to slow down with those, love, they're bad for your health –"

Brigid snorted.

"Alright, then, they're bad for my wallet –"

"Oh, _please_ , you've got a private _helicopter_ , for God's sake –"

"Right. Soup and cigarettes for breakfast it is, then," he said, suppressing a smile.

"Excellent. I'll meet you downstairs, I've got to shower."

"Yes, you really have – _ah!_ " He yelped, dodging a blow from Brigid. "An unwarranted attack!"

"Unwarranted attack, my arse," Brigid muttered, brushing past him on her way to the stairs.

* * *

Brigid found James in the kitchen with what looked like the half the contents of the cupboards around his ears and six different pots and pans going on the enormous stove. She lingered in the doorway, dismayed.

"What is all this?" She demanded, gesticulating wildly to indicate the chaotic state of the kitchen.

"What? Oh – breakfast!" He said cheerfully, twisting away from the stove to grin at her.

"What happened to soup and cigarettes?"

"You can have soup and cigarettes any day, love. Today is special."

"What's so special about today?"

"Well, I'm here, for one –"

"Hmph."

"Alright, well, if that doesn't do it for you – we're celebrating your success."

"My success? Success in what?"

"In _writing_ , of course, what else?" He said, rolling his eyes and turning back to the pan of rashers he had going on the front burner.

Brigid wasn't entirely sure how to respond to this without asking the wrong questions. She thought for a moment, choosing her words carefully.

"So…you…liked it? The story?"

He stopped what he was doing and moved towards her, his expression unreadable. Brigid felt very nervous all of a sudden, aware that Sebastian was likely standing just outside the front door, gun in hand. James took her face in both of his hands; they smelt of rosemary.

"Darling," he whispered, "it was _incendiary_."

"Mmm, clever of you to say so," Brigid laughed, stepping away, relieved.

"Which reminds me," he continued. "I _did_ promise you something, didn't I?"

"Now that you mention it, I do recall a promise being made…"

* * *

 _[one week earlier]_

"Well, what have you got for me, love?"

Brigid handed James a small stack of paper, unbound but neatly sheathed. Across the top, printed: _A Pleasure to Burn_. He laughed.

"Oh, this will be good. This will be very good."

"Are you going to read it now?" She asked, biting her lip. She hoped he wouldn't; she hated watching other people read her stories. It felt dirty, somehow.

"No, no, no time for that now, I'll read it on the ride back," he said with a wave of his hand.

She gave a sigh of relief and her shoulders relaxed visibly.

"Before I go, though, let's take a walk, you and I, shall we?" He said.

"Alright," Brigid agreed, leading him out the front door and into a rare bright day. Sebastian looked on impassively from behind mirrored lenses as the two of them began to trudge across the meadow.

"Look, this is my only friend, now," Brigid gestured to the right, where a lone sheep stood grazing.

"Oh, don't be dramatic," James said, "it's so unappealing on you. You never wanted any friends in the first place, remember?"

" _Yes_ , I remember, and I still don't. I was making a joke. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Well, I'm pretty well rid of humans, but I don't mind animals too much. The sheep really is my friend."

"Oh? And what's its name?"

"She. And her name is Sheep."

James cast her an incredulous glance.

"Aren't you supposed to be a creative type? And here you are, naming sheep…Sheep. Exactly what kind of story am I about to read, Brigid? Please don't tell me I'm going to be disappointed. I hate – _hate_ – to be disappointed."

"Calm down, the story is fine – at least, I think it is – the name is just a literary reference."

"To?"

"To – well – lots of things, actually. Sheep in stories often aren't given identifying names. Like in _Charlotte's Web_. Or _Animal Farm_. It's a metaphorical device."

"Hmm, not a very subtle one, is it?"

"No, I suppose not. Then again, neither am I."

"No," James agreed, looking at her thoughtfully. "You're not."

Brigid blushed, confused, and they walked on in silence for a few minutes. Then –

"What do you want?"

"Sorry?"

"What do you want?" James asked again. "If the story is…good – which we'll know in about a week – I'll bring you something. Anything. Within the rules, that is."

"Anything?"

"Except booze. That's boring."

"Hmm, alright. Um...music, then."

"Oh, lovely. That's much more interesting. What kind of music?"

"Surprise me."

"Don't I always?"

"Remains to be seen."

* * *

 _[present]_

"Well? Are you surprised?"

"Actually, yes," Brigid laughed, taking in the scene before her. All the furniture in the library had been pushed back to the far end of the room to make space for dozens of boxes of records. Atop the closest one perched a large, extremely ancient-looking phonograph.

"I might have cheated a bit," James admitted as Brigid began to dig through the boxes. "I might have popped into your apartment and done a bit of searching, just to get an idea –"

"Invasive…" Brigid muttered without pausing in her search.

"Just to get an idea," James repeated loudly, ignoring her, "but I couldn't find any coherent pattern in your musical taste. You're a mystery."

"So you brought everything?"

"I brought everything."

"Good. I like everything." She straightened up and held a battered sleeve triumphantly over her head. "But I like _this_ most of all."

" _ABBA_? You're not serious."

"I'm perfectly serious," she replied, sliding the record out of its sleeve and carefully inspecting both sides for scratches. Satisfied, she queued it up on the phonograph and flipped the switch. She pumped her fists in the air dramatically as _Voulez-Vous_ began to blare from the speaker.

"You've no idea what you've just gotten yourself into, love," James grinned as he grabbed her hand and twirled her around.

"What – and you were making fun of _me_ for—" she cried indignantly as he spun her back into his arms.

"Yes, because you're a tortured, starving artist. You're not supposed to like 70's Swedish pop music. You're supposed to like – I don't even know what you're supposed to like. Bands I've never heard of, I imagine."

"And what are you supposed to like?"

"Point taken. What do you think Sebastian likes?"

"I think Sebastian likes what you tell him to like."

"You're probably right. Think I should make him listen to more ABBA?"

Brigid laughed to think of Sebastian standing just on the other side of the door, expressionless, bobbing his head along to the cheery beat. Just then, the song ended. An awkward silence followed, punctuated only by the scratchy fuzz of the needle, and Brigid became intensely aware that she and James were practically embracing. James seemed to come to the same realization and dropped his hands quickly to his sides.

"Right. Well. Now that we've got our morning workout out of the way, I'd best be going."

"Ah – what about breakfast?"

"Oh, I ate hours ago. That's all for you. Should tide you over until next time, eh?"

"That depends. When's next time?"

"Oh...say a week from today. That should give you enough time."

"Enough time for what?" Brigid asked dumbly.

"Enough time for the _stories_ , love," James replied, tapping a finger to her temple.

* * *

After James and Sebastian had gone, Brigid spent much of the morning flitting around the kitchen, taking small pecks at the abundance of food, smoking cigarette after cigarette, changing records out almost compulsively. She couldn't settle on a genre; she wavered between disco and bluegrass and classical and heavy metal. She knew she was very nervous but couldn't quite pin down why. Possibly it was the pressure of a new story; the first one had come so easily, she was afraid she'd exhausted all her creative stores in one go. It was more than that, though. It was also James – a little bit. His smile flashed in the back of her mind like a beacon. She shook the thought away, frustrated, and returned to the library. She pushed aside some of the boxes so she could reach the bookshelves, where she stood staring, craning her neck for what felt like ages. Finally –

"Is this cheating?" She murmured to herself, stooping to pull a dusty volume out from a low shelf. "I suppose not," she mused, turning it over and over in her hands, "since it's a monster story, and technically monster stories aren't real. I'd have to change it to make it real." With that, she nodded decisively and headed up to the attic, where the writing desk stood in wait. Sat down. Loaded it up. Fingers danced across the keys:

 _The blood is life...and it shall be mine._


	8. Dracula

A/N: Thank you, Becks93, for the lovely reviews! x

* * *

 **CHAPTER 8: DRACULA**

Molly Hooper had never seen anything quite like it. Three men lay on the table before her. They were very young, very attractive, and very dead. The dead part didn't bother her – she was used to that. It was the way in which they had died.

"Bled. All of them. Right to the last drop," she said succinctly, turning to living men who stood behind her.

"Obviously," Sherlock said, causing Molly to bristle indignantly. "Even Lestrade could have told us that. How did you find them again, Gavin?"

"It's Greg."

"What?"

"Never mind. We found each man hanging upside down in his own bedroom. Two in their bedroom closets, one from a ceiling fan. Dead on arrival."

"And the blood?"

"Just minimal spotting beneath the bodies."

"So someone's taken the rest of it."

"It appears that way, yes," said Lestrade, "but what would they have done with it?"

"I've got eleven possible theories at the moment. John?"

John tilted his head thoughtfully for a moment; then his lips quirked up in a smile. "I think we've got a vampire on our hands."

"Finally, someone understands!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. Molly and Lestrade looked at one another in speechless bafflement.

"Molly," Sherlock continued, "run a test for anticoagulant agents embedded in the vessel walls of each victim. Oh, and a bodily fluid analysis for the genital area. I want to know whom each of these men had sex with before he died. Give us a ring as soon as you've got the results."

"And you," Sherlock said, rounding on Lestrade. "Have you got time to take us round to the crime scenes now?"

"Actually, I –"

"Excellent. Let's go."

* * *

"So," said John once they were seated comfortably in the back of Lestrade's car. "Vampires?"

"Not quite, but close enough," Sherlock responded, taking his phone out of his jacket pocket and tilting the screen towards John.

 _The blood is life…and it shall be mine._

 _JM x._

"Dracula. Not subtle, that one, is he?" said John.

"No, not this time," Sherlock replied, "and that means we should be worried. He said this one wouldn't be as easy. We're still missing part of the story."

"Right. We don't know where the blood's gone."

"And until we know where the blood's gone, we can't predict the next victims. Our hands are tied until Moriarty decides to give us more."

"Has it occurred to you that maybe he really is a vampire? What if he's just got a backlog of human blood milkshakes sitting in his kitchen fridge right now?"

"That did occur to me as one of the less likely explanations. I've got better theories, though."

"And what are those?" Lestrade interjected from the driver's seat.

"Patience, Gavin. All in good time."

* * *

"Single," Sherlock announced as they entered the flat.

"We've only just got here –" Lestrade began.

"They were all single. They were found in their own bedrooms, yes? If they were attached, they wouldn't be bringing strange women into their flats. They'd get a hotel or whatever people do for that sort of thing."

"Who said anything about strange women?"

"I did, just now. We'll need Molly to confirm – ah, right on time," Sherlock said, pulling his buzzing phone from his pocket and turning it on speaker.

"What have you got for us, Molly?"

"All three men have had intercourse in the past 24 hours."

"With the same woman?" John asked hopefully.

"Of course not, that would be too easy," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes.

"He's right – different women," Molly's voice answered.

"And what about the anti-coagulant?" Sherlock asked.

"Right again. I've found EDTA in all of their systems."

"Brilliant," Sherlock said. Molly had started to say something else, but he hung up on her.

"Care to explain what's going on?" Lestrade asked impatiently.

"EDTA is a chemical used to prevent blood from clotting," John explained. "The fact that it was found in the victims confirms that Moriarty is trying to _use_ the blood, not just commit murder."

"Quite," said Sherlock, ignoring the look of disgust on Lestrade's face. "And it seems like he's found himself some very capable agents to do the dirty work for him."

They stepped into the bedroom and looked up to the ceiling, where thick black cords hung from the base of a large fan.

"John, tell me what else you know about EDTA."

"Well…erm…" John frowned, grasping for a thought. "Once you're actually dead, it's not very effective."

"So…" Sherlock turned to him, brows raised.

"So," John continued, "the victims were still alive when they were bled out. At least for most of it."

Lestrade shuddered.

"What kind of man lets himself be hung upside down from a ceiling fan?" Sherlock asked. John and Lestrade just looked at him, dumbfounded.

"Oh, come on, it's easy," he whined. "What do young, attractive, single men like? Sex."

"Oh."

"You think this was some kind of…sex…thing?" asked Lestrade.

"Whoever these women are, they're using bondage as a pretext to get healthy young men strung upside down in the comfort of their own flats. They're feeding them the anti-coagulants beforehand, probably dissolved in alcohol. Once the victim is strung up, she slits his throat, sits back, and enjoys the show. Lestrade, I suggest you have the Scotland Yard do a sweep of the red light district, immediately. You're looking for a place that specializes in BDSM, an expensive one, that caters to rich clientele."

"Oh, Jesus," Lestrade moaned. "Donovan's going to go ballistic over this."

* * *

Four days and seven victims later, they finally had their girl.

"Katherine Alexander," she said, extending her hand across the table towards Sherlock. Her fingers were long and pale; nails blood-red.

"Mm, yes, lovely," Sherlock said, ignoring the hand.

"Hello," said John, giving her a hesitant little wave. She arched one sculpted eyebrow and did not wave back. Just then, Lestrade stuck his head in the door.

"You've got about ten minutes, Sherlock, and then we've got to turn her over to the bureau for official questioning."

"I only need five," Sherlock answered without turning around. "Tell me, Ms. Alexander, how many of your girls are in on the game?"

"Oh, I don't kiss and tell, Mr. Holmes," she said with a smile, "and you wouldn't either, if you were in my line of business."

"Yes, well, luckily, I'm not," he replied. "How much contact have you had with Jim Moriarty in the past week?"

"I don't know a Jim Moriarty."

"No matter. How much are the Russians paying you?"

"I don't understand, Mr. Holmes."

"The _Russians_ , Ms. Alexander – or should I say, Ms. Alexandrova?"

Her smile soured. John looked back and forth between the two of them, incredulous.

"The _Russians_ , Holmes!?"

"Yes, John, the Russians," Sherlock replied with a smirk. "It's quite clever really, can't believe it took me this long to see it. Moriarty wasn't using the blood for himself. He was selling it."

"To Russians."

"Yes."

" _Why_?"

"Sochi. The Winter Olympics are only a few months away. It's the first time Russia's hosted since the fall of the Soviet Union. They can't afford to lose."

"Aaahhh…" said John, his face lighting up as realization dawned. "Blood doping. They're harvesting the blood of healthy young men and using it to boost the performance of Russian athletes. But that's…that's _insane_. This is all just for _sport_?"

"It is for more than sport," the woman interjected. Her English accent had fallen away, replaced by a Russian one. Tears shone in her eyes. "It is for country. The blood is life."

* * *

"Well, that was bloody mental," John said as they left the precinct a short time later.

Sherlock snorted. "Literally."

Just then, his phone buzzed.

"Jesus, God, can't the man give you a moment's peace? He's obsessed!"

Sherlock shook his head and unlocked the message:

 _There are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely, Mr. Holmes..._

 _Better keep one eye open._

 _JM x._


	9. Queen of Hearts

**CHAPTER 9: QUEEN OF HEARTS**

"Well, I've really made a thorough mess of it this time, haven't I, Sheep?"

"Baaaaaah."

"Oh, shut up, you're one to judge," Brigid shot back, "you're eating a towel, for God's sake."

The sheep made no reply, merely gazing up at her with doleful eyes as it munched thoughtfully on a dishtowel.

"Save some of that for me, will you?" she told it, "I think I've just about destroyed all the edible items in the house. That towel might be my last source of sustenance."

The sheep blinked and swallowed the remainder of the towel in one gulp.

"Damn you, filthy sadist," Brigid swore.

"Filthy sadist, now, am I, love?" came a voice from behind. Brigid jumped about six inches and spun unsteadily. James stood in the doorway of the kitchen and surveyed the scene. It wasn't pretty.

"I – I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow –" Brigid stammered.

"Mm, yes, sorry, must have gotten my days mixed up," he said. "Or did I? Maybe I wanted to catch you in the act. So to speak."

"The act of _what_?"

"Who were you talking to?"

"When?"

"Just now. The filthy sadist."

" _You're_ a filthy sadist."

"I won't argue with you there, love."

Sheep chose that moment to emerge from behind the counter, emitting a loud, angry bleat. It was still hungry, apparently.

For once, James was at a complete loss for words. He held his hands out in dismay.

"It snowed," Brigid explained.

"What's _that_ got to do with anything?"

"She looked cold out there."

"It's a _sheep_. It's got a permanent wool coat."

"And—"

"And?"

"And maybe I got a bit lonely," Brigid finished in a small voice.

"What, going soft on me now, are you, McNamara?"

Brigid frowned.

"Oh, come on, I'm just messing," he said with a grin.

"Well, I'm not. I didn't exactly choose this, you know."

"And you weren't forced, either. Don't bullshit me, Brigid. You don't want anything to do with the world out there. I gave you exactly what you needed."

"Wow, thanks."

"Alright, know what? I think someone needs a drink."

Brigid's eyes lit up.

"Thought that'd get your attention. First, though, we've got this mess to clear up," he said, waving his hand to indicate the general kitchen area, which looked as though it had been struck by a food tornado.

"Do we have to?"

"Yes, if we leave this here, it will morph into a sentient being and devour us all. What exactly were you trying to accomplish, anyway?"

"Um, dinner."

"What were you eating before this?"

"I've been pecking at that breakfast you made."

"Brigid, that was _eight days ago_."

"Right."

"Jesus – have you burnt part of the wallpaper off over here?"

"It was ugly anyway."

"Is there any food at all left in this house?"

"There's soup," Brigid grinned. "And cigarettes."

* * *

It was hours before they were done, and the sun had begun to set in earnest. At James's insistence, Sheep had been removed from the premises; at Brigid's insistence, Sebastian had been dispatched to make sure she was somewhere safe and warm.

"Looks like it's going to snow again soon," Brigid said, peering up at the purpling sky. "Think Sebastian will be back before it does?"

"Oh, I should hope," said James absentmindedly. "Otherwise we'll be stuck here. Helicopter won't fly in the snow."

"Hmm, can't imagine you'd enjoy that. After this can, we're totally out of soup. Then we're just down to cigarettes, and I'm not sharing those. You'll have to starve."

"Excuse me, who said anything about sharing? Everything here is mine. I'll take what I want."

"So will I, thank you," she said, deftly slipping the bottle of whisky from James's hand as he passed by her.

"Naughty."

"Thirsty. What's the occasion, anyway? I thought this was a banned substance."

"It's a reward."

"What am I, a dog?"

"Ok, a present, if you like."

"For what?"

"For another story well-written."

"Wow, you must've really liked it if it's earned me a whisky."

"I did. It was unexpected. Very sexy."

Brigid burst out laughing.

"What?" James demanded.

"It's just – sorry – people don't normally describe literature as sexy."

"I do."

"Well, then."

"Well, then."

"Here's to literature and sex," she said, lifting up her glass with a grin.

"To literature and sex," he agreed, clinking his glass against hers.

* * *

Three drinks later, they were sprawled on separate couches in the library, smoking and arguing over the Beatles.

"I can't believe we're having this discussion right now. I feel like I'm fourteen again," Brigid insisted.

"Why?" James was upside down with his legs draped over the back of the couch and his hair brushing the floor. His tie had been removed and flung unceremoniously across the room, and his shirt was half-unbuttoned.

"Because fourteen was the last time I heard someone sincerely try to claim that _Abbey Road_ was their favorite Beatles album."

"Oh, come on, it's –"

" _So_ unoriginal. People only pick that one because it's famous and they don't know any better."

"That's a little elitist of you, love."

"You have a private country house and suddenly I'm the elitist?"

"Oh, sod off."

"Come on, you can do better than _Abbey Road_."

"Ah – you've got me," James admitted, sliding his legs around so that he was sitting right side up. "I'm more of a Stones man."

"Aahh, the truth comes out. Let me guess. _Exile on Main Street_?"

" _Beggars Banquet_."

"Interesting…" Brigid trailed off.

"What's yours?"

"What's my what?"

"Beatles album. Favorite."

"Oh – _Rubber Soul_."

"How obscure of you."

"Not really."

"Put it on and see how many songs I know."

Brigid rose from the couch, a little unsteadily, and pulled the record from a nearby box. She glanced out the window as she queued up the A-side and something occurred to her.

"Hang on. It's snowing."

"Oh?"

"What time is it?"

James looked down at his watch. "Oh…around ten."

" _Ten_? Jesus, once I get to the drink I just completely lose track of the time. What in God's name's happened to Sebastian?"

"Oh, I'd imagine he's just touching down in London now."

"Sorry?"

"I told him to leave hours ago."

"What for?" Brigid demanded, spinning around to face James.

"Careful, love. Coming dangerously close to an important question."

"No, I don't care why he's left, I mean – why are you still here?"

"Tonight's my night off."

"And?" Brigid advanced a step towards him.

"And…" He paused and took another drink. He looked thoughtful and just a touch….nervous?

"Explain yourself," Brigid said, moving to stand directly in front of him.

"I can't explain myself, Brigid. I'm not myself."

"Oh, don't give me that bloody nonsense –"

"I stayed because I wanted to stay. Does that satisfy you?"

"Hardly. Where was my say in this? What if I didn't want you to –"

"Didn't you, though?" He said softly, rising up to meet her. His eyes were very dark. They were so close, she could see herself reflected in them.

"I –"

Just then, his phone went off.

"Is that the _Bee Gees_?" she asked incredulously.

"Sorry – hold on – got to take this –"

"Oh, Christ," Brigid muttered as he strode off into the kitchen, whispering furiously into his phone.

She suddenly felt much drunker than she'd thought she was. Unnerved, she grabbed a fresh cigarette off the coffee table and lit it with shaking hand. James was pacing back and forth in the kitchen, phone pressed tight to his ear. Giving it all up as a bad job, she decided to go to bed. He'd sleep on the couch and the next morning they'd be sober and never speak of it again. Perhaps he'd even be gone before she woke up.

* * *

In the safety of her own room, she pushed aside the typewriter and climbed up onto the writing desk. She sat cross-legged and stared out across the dark, snow-laden meadow, thinking. What was happening to her?

She'd smoked the cigarette nearly down to the filter when she heard a noise downstairs. Brief silence, then the scratch of needle on record, then – another Beatles song. _Must've switched it to the B-side_ , she mused. Her thoughts spiraled out in a hundred different directions as the music played softly below, but she was too slow, too drunk, to catch them all. They whizzed by her, fire and blood and ruined dresses and fluffy sheep –

Her stream of consciousness was interrupted as the first song ended and the next one began. Brigid sighed. Her favorite. She sang along, so quietly that she could barely hear herself.

" _Is there anybody going to listen to my story?_

 _All about the girl – "_

" _\- who came to stay…"_

Finished a deeper voice just behind Brigid's left ear. She gasped and jerked backwards. Two hands wrapped around her middle, catching her before she fell. She twisted her neck round and found herself nearly nose-to-nose with James.

"Thought you didn't know this album," she whispered accusingly.

"I don't," he replied. "But I know this song like it was written on my own heart."

In one fluid motion, he'd plucked the burning cigarette butt from her fingers, ashed it on the desk, and closed the remaining inch of distance between their lips. Everything seemed to stop. Brigid's mind went totally blank, and before she knew what she was doing she'd twisted full round on the desk and had both hands entwined in his hair. He deepened the kiss, gripping her hard by the waist as she wrapped both legs around him. He broke away for a moment and pressed his forehead into hers, looking solemnly down at her.

"Bed?" He whispered.

"Someone once told me that sex with strangers was _so_ last year."

"What, now I'm a stranger?"

"Tell me your real name."

"James is my real name."

"I don't believe you."

"Most people call me Jim."

"I like James better."

"Me too."

"What's your surname?"

"Careful, love."

"Bed?"

"Bed."


	10. Six Impossible Things

A/N: Thank you, everyone, for the reviews/favorites/follows! x

* * *

 **CHAPTER 10: SIX IMPOSSIBLE THINGS**

As she drifted out of sleep and into consciousness, Brigid became acutely aware of two things: one, her head was pounding dully as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to the inside of her skull; and two, a warm arm – not her own – was draped across her collarbone.

It all came back to her as she lay there, staring up at the dusty shafts of morning light streaming over her bed, feeling the heat of his breath on her shoulder. The whisky. The music. The smoke. _Him_.

Oh, Christ, what had she gotten herself into? It was one thing to get a little tipsy, pick up a good-looking sort at the bar, have a lay, and be done with it. It was quite another to engage in carnal relations with your…

 _Your_ what _, exactly, Brigid Jean_? Said a sharp voice in her head. Brigid clapped a hand over her eyes, trying to silence the voice; it was doing her hangover no favors. But the voice would not be silenced. _Your employer? Your benefactor? Your…captor? You don't even know who he is. You said it yourself, last night._

Brigid considered this. It hadn't seemed so important, last night, but now, in sobering daylight, she felt confused and unsure. There was a reason she was still single – she just wasn't cut out for this sort of thing, even under the most normal of circumstances. The emotional well for her characters ran deep, but that required her to make sacrifices in other parts of her life; her capacity for romance remained largely untapped. She wasn't sure how wise it would be to tap in now, when she was living in complete isolation save for a handful of sheep, a surly bodyguard, and a man about whom she knew almost nothing.

And yet, she felt as though she knew everything. Everything that mattered, anyway.

 _Well, that's stupid,_ the voice interjected. _Who are you to say what matters? What if he's a serial killer, hm? Would that change your opinion?_

"Oh, sod off," Brigid muttered out loud, then clapped a hand over her mouth as James stirred beside her. He frowned, eyes still closed.

"Did you just tell me to sod off?"

"Erm – no –"

"Who're you talking to, then? Jesus, if you've let the sheep back in here –"

"No, it's not the sheep, I was talking to myself if you must know."

This got his attention. His eyes slid open lazily and he propped himself up on one elbow so that he was looking down at her. She twisted her hands nervously in the sheets, feeling exposed.

"Why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why were you talking to yourself?"

"Oh, um…just habit, I suppose…spend a lot of my time alone, you know…"

"But you're not alone now," he whispered, grabbing hold of her jaw lightly and leaning in to brush a kiss across her lips. She felt faint for a moment and struggled to get control of her thoughts. She couldn't get him to tell her who he was – but who was _she?_ Her head throbbed viciously – the kissing, the thinking, the hangover, it was all too much. She pulled away.

"I –" she began, without knowing quite what she was going to say. He cupped her cheek; they were very close, and he gave her a penetrating look, his eyes still deep and dark with sleep.

"I know what you're thinking, love—" he started, but Brigid brought a finger up to his lips.

"Stop. I know you do, but let me work this one out on my own first. Please," she added.

"Alright, love, go on then," he said, parting his lips quickly and giving her finger a playful bite.

"Well, I…I don't know how to say this, exactly – I've never been good with speaking, I wish I could just write you a letter, but that doesn't seem very practical at the moment given the circumstances."

"Decidedly not."

"Right. So, ah…what I mean to say is…I wonder if I've been changed in the night. I don't feel like the same me this morning as the me I was yesterday. Does that sound mad?"

"It sounds absolutely mad. Go on."

"Well, do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Do you feel changed, too?"

He laughed, eyes crinkling up at the corners. "Love, you've no idea. I change from one person to the next every second of every day."

"That's impossible," she said, wrinkling her nose in annoyance.

"Sometimes I believe in six impossible things before breakfast," he said with a grin.

"Ooh, speaking of breakfast –"

"Oh, don't, breakfast is boring—"

"What! And you making me six-course meals weekly –"

"That was before we had better things to do with our time."

Brigid could think of no intelligent reply to this, so instead she laced her fingers through his messy hair and pulled his face back down to hers. She stopped just before their lips touched.

"One more thing."

"Yes, love?"

"If we're not the same people we were yesterday…who are we now?"

"My dear," his breath floated across her parted lips, "we are the authors of our own destiny."

They spoke no more.

* * *

He had to leave before the sun was fully up, and since they'd committed their time to other endeavors, there was no breakfast. No matter; Brigid felt too strange and jittery to keep anything down. She felt like maybe she should shower, but that would wash the smell – his smell – away. As soon as this thought crossed her mind, she hated herself for it, and resolved to shower right away. The cold water would do her some good, and Lord knew she needed it; she'd nearly forgotten she had a job to do, and she couldn't very well write a half-decent murder mystery with James's scent floating up around her ears. Floating. The word had struck a chord in her, and she snapped her fingers, inspired. She nearly tripped twice in her haste to get to her desk before the line escaped from her mind:

 _Call me Ishmael._


End file.
